Black and Potter
by ecrouse
Summary: He made a different choice at King's Cross station, and awoke in Godric's Hollow just in time to hear Voldemort kill his father. He watched, helpless, incorporeal, and frustrated beyond measure, as Lily Potter made her sacrifice all over again.
1. Godric's Hollow

He awoke in Godric's Hollow just in time to hear Voldemort kill his father and he watched, helpless, incorporeal, and frustrated beyond measure, as Lily Potter made her sacrifice all over again. As Death pulled him outside (through the wall, no less) he heard a crack and thundering footsteps as someone Apparated into the front garden and dashed upstairs. The noise woke his younger self, and the infant's wailing served as a horrible accompaniment to Snape's broken sobbing.

THAT, Death said, IS A DIFFERENT HARRY. WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

He coughed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Harrison…Black, I suppose."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. They stood behind the house and Harrison's shoes made no imprint in the wet grass. A rumble in the distance grew steadily louder and the sounds of Snape's grief faltered, though little Harry continued to cry. There was a second crack as the Potions Master Disapparated from the upstairs bedroom. And then a memory hit Harrison, quite suddenly, and he strode toward the side of the house.

"Oh! Sirius! Hagrid said that Sirius had leant him his motorbike, that day in the pub, it was _ages _ago, and –"

Death silently followed Harrison around to the front. He waited, watching, as Reubus Hagrid arrived on the Knight Bus and lumbered inside on his mission to pick up little Harry. Sirius Black and his flying motorbike landed a few moments later and Harrison, eyes shining, called the other man's name and tried to hug him. His arms had no more substance than mist and Sirius, noticing nothing, went right through Harrison as he went to follow Hagrid inside. Harrison staggered a bit and swallowed hard. Death's voice sounded within his head.

DO YOU WANT A BODY?

"A – yes. I – how do I – "

PRACTICE.

"Er, right. Practice."

Hagrid and Sirius came out the front door, talking. Hagrid held a crying bundle in his arms. Sirius gave Hagrid his motorbike and watched as they disappeared into the distance. He looked like he was going to be sick. Once his godfather had Disapparated, Harrison turned toward Death.

"How long before I…?"

YEARS, LITTLE MASTER. POSSIBLY DECADES.

"But you'll teach me?"

Death paused.

RIDDLE IRKS ME. ONLY ONE OTHER WIZARD MISSED HIS APPOINTMENTS THIS THOROUGHLY, AND _HE _DID IT BY ACCIDENT.

"Right."

They were quiet for another moment.

"There's nothing I can do about Dumbledore putting me with the Dursleys, is there." It wasn't a question, so Death did not answer. Harrison looked into the hooded face, green eyes blazing.

"Take me to Little Winging," He said, and then added, "Please."

Death nodded, and they disappeared.


	2. Yer a wizard, Harry

They were on the train to London for Harry Potter's first visit to Diagon Alley. Harrison felt a wave of nostalgia as Harry read his school list. He looked at Hagrid and wondered if Dumbledore had given him the pattern for his enormous yellow knitting project. He never had found out what it was.

It was their birthday. Harry was eleven and Harrison, so far as he could tell, was twenty seven. Ten years as an invisible and entirely insubstantial spectre had forced him to be patient. At first he had raged at his inability to interfer with the Dursleys treatment of Harry, but it did not take long for him to become bored with this useless haunting of his aunt and uncle's house. He traveled Britain for a short while, but grew frustrated with his inability to interact with anyone or anything save Death, whose visits were very rare. The desire for a body soon became a singular, driving ambition which filled the decade between Voldemort's disappearance and Harry's arrival in Diagon Alley.

Harrison often thought about Voldemort's spirit, furious and alone in the forests of Albania, and laughed with rather grim amusement at the similarity of their predicaments.

...

Once, sometime around Harry's third birthday, Death warned Harrison that corporeality would be permanent. He would not be able to shift back into a spectre. Harrison did not mind. He asked if he could chose his appearance, for he had realized that he must not be instantly recognizable if he were to remain inconspicuous. Death said that he could.

Then Harrison asked if Death could teach him Occlumency first, to protect his mind and his memories from Voldemort, Snape, and Dumbledore. What would be the point of spending years crafting a body if his plans went up in smoke the moment one of these men read his mind? Death agreed and, over the next several years, he helped Harrison build Occlumancy walls strong enough and subtle enough to keep his secrets safe. It was during this time that Harrison finally learnt a measure of control over his emotions and his temper.

...

Because he got bored, Harrison did not see Harry grow into a small, skinny boy with knobbly knees, black hair and bright-green eyes. He did not see that Harry liked his thin, lighting bolt shaped scar. When he was still quite small Harry asked his Aunt where it had come from and that night, as he lay in his cupboard, Harry strained to remember the car crash that killed his parents. He came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain in his forehead.

Harrison did not see Harry open his eyes and stifle a cry when the burning pain did not go away. He did not see Harry clap his hands to the side of his head as pressure built in his forehead, desperate to make it stop.

He was not there when Harry miraculously re-grew his hair overnight, or when he Apparated onto the roof of the school kitchens to escape his bullies. Harrison was not there because, he told himself, he knew what was going to happen and there was nothing he could do about it. Not yet.

Harrison did not follow Harry and the Dursleys to the zoo because he knew about the boa constrictor and the vanishing glass, and there was nothing he could do about Harry's underage magic. He did not see Harry get a mild concussion when he fell hard on the concrete floor of the reptile house, and he did not see Harry shaking in his cupboard when the Horcrux in his scar reacted to Harry's first use of Parseltongue.

Because he got bored, Harrison did not see Harry unwittingly force the tiny sliver of Voldemort's soul behind a thick wall of his own magic.

...

Harrison returned to Privet Drive in time for the kurfuffle over Harry's first Hogwarts letter, and he was brought up short by Petunia's fear that "they" were watching the house. She was right, wasn't she?

The letter was from McGonagall. If she knew he had slept in the cupboard under the stairs, why hadn't she done anything about it? McGonagall had been the only voice of protest when Dumbledore and Hagrid left his younger self to face the Dursleys with nothing but a blanket and a letter. Harrison had been sure that his Transfiguration professor would check on Harry, perhaps by pretending to be one of Mrs. Figg's cats, but no luck. He supposed that Dumbledore, who he now knew received a twice annual report from Mrs. Figg, had told McGonagall not to worry.

Dumbledore. Harrison had not, in the end, forgiven the headmaster for failing to trust him. He replayed their encounter at King's Cross over and over in his head, analyzing what Dumbledore had said and wondering at the things he had left out.

_ When I have a body_, he told himself, _one of the first things I'll do is get my hands on a Pensieve_.

His enigmatic conversation with Dumbledore made him think about Hallows and Horcruxes, and about whether he regretted his decision to board the train. He often thought about Ron and Hermione as well, and about Ginny and Neville and everyone else who had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. What had happened to them? Had the world he knew continued without him or had it rewound with him, like a Muggle cassette tape, to the moment when James Potter died? Where was the bloodied, shivering Horcrux child now, if King's Cross station had been both real and inside his head?

Death met these questions and many others with silence, as though he expected Harrison to find the answers himself. In these moments the anthropomorphic personification reminded him, rather horribly, of Dumbledore at his worst. Any goodwill which Harrison felt toward the headmaster at the end of his previous life had faded into apathetic disappointment. He understood better, now, why Dumbledore had made a chessboard of his life, but he would never thank him for it. He refused to focus on the 'greater good' as Dumbledore had done. He would not repeat the older wizard's mistakes.

Harrison realized that this put him in a rather difficult position. He felt sure that his past could have been better than it was, but, once he had a body…how could he change this world for the better without meddling in Harry's life the way Dumbledore had meddled in his? He knew he could not just meddle _differently_. He was not so arrogant as to think himself a better chessmaster than Dumbledore even with his limited knowledge of the future. These memories were his greatest asset, yet he knew they would do him no good if he started changing things right off the bat. In any case, he could do nothing but watch until he got himself a proper body.

...

July 31, 1991.

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

"Bless my soul," whispered the old barman. "Harry Potter – what an honour."

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

"Welcome back, Mr Potter, welcome back."

The crowd remained still and staring for a long moment, then crowded around the young boy. Harry looked confused and not a little uncomfortable, although Hagrid appeared not to notice. Harrison waited. He intended, with no small amount of trepidation, to use Harry's first interaction with Quirrell to test whether Voldemort could sense his presence.

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching. Harrison held his breath. He moved behind Harry, then into him so that his form overlapped the boy's body as much as possible. He crouched so that Quirrell seemed to meet both of their eyes.

"Professor Quirrell!" said Hagrid. "Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."

"P-P-Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry's hand, "c-can't t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you."

Harrison stared. "_What?"_ he cried. Of course, nobody heard him.

Quirrell had shaken his hand? How on earth could Harry touch the professor without burning him? For one horrible moment, Harrison wondered if Lily's protection had not taken hold.

There must be an explanation.

He followed Harry and Hagrid out the back door and into Diagon Alley, thinking. He knew Quirrell would try and fail to steal the Stone later that same day. Voldemort, he felt, was cunning enough to break in undetected, so it must have been Quirrell's fault that the break-in made the Daily Prophet. Perhaps Quirrell was merely allied with Voldemort's spirit, and did not yet have the Dark Lord sticking out the back of his head.

He did not know.


	3. Hogwarts

September 1, 1991

Harrison Black watched the first years file into the Great Hall and pursed his lips. Everyone looked so young. Hermione's teeth hadn't been that big, had they? Ron was taller than he remembered, with more freckles and a longer nose.

He was startled and rather amused to see Ron and Draco Malfoy roll their eyes simultaneously in response to Hermione's comment on the ceiling, before their eyes met and they turned away, scowling at the shared reaction. Harry, staring up at the cloudy sky, missed the exchange entirely. Albus Dumbledore and the rest of the Hogwarts staff were also watching the line of first years. Dumbledore, with his deep purple robes, silvery beard and half-moon spectacles, was _alive._

He was alive and twinkling and making good-natured remarks about pudding not ten feet from where Harrison stood. This man had (and had not yet) been Harrison's mentor, his leader, the man who pulled strings and orchestrated both of their deaths to the best of his considerable ability. Harrison resented him, deeply, yet could not deny the flash of relief that Dumbledore was back at Hogwarts. He had spent years thinking about the headmaster, but actually seeing him again in all his nonsensical glory was something else entirely. It seared the apathetic film off of his feelings and left all of the disappointment intact.

_Good lord_, Harrison thought as his eyes traveled down the high table. _Snape._

The Potions Master wore stiff black robes and a blank expression as he watched the Sorting Hat finish its song. Harrison lost count of the number of times this man had saved his life and, at the same time, made living it immensely unpleasant. Harrison smiled. Perhaps he would return the favor. He looked over the house tables next, and his throat tightened when he saw Fred Weasley happily chatting away with Angelina Johnson. He wanted to save that life, too.

He pulled his attention back to the Hat and watched the rest of the Sorting, which went exactly as he remembered it, as did the rest of the welcome feast. Before he knew it Percy Weasley stood up to lead the newest Gryffindors to the dormitories.

...

Harry lay back on his four-poster bed and giggled as he heard Ron try and fail to stop Scabbers from crawling into bed with him. He ran a hand over the covers, then stretched, luxuriating in the new space. He could get used to this. It was nothing like his cupboard. Harry stared at the wooden underside of the canopy until he fell asleep. Every inch was covered in names, presumably those belonging to all the boys who had stayed in this bed. A big one in the lower right corner read "S. O. BLACK."

Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he had a very strange dream. He was wearing Professor Quirrell's turban, which kept talking to him, telling him he must transfer to Slytherin at once, because it was his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn't want to be in Slytherin; it got heavier and heavier; he tried to pull it off but it tightened painfully (…) there was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating and shaking.

He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he woke the next day, he didn't remember the dream at all.

...

Harrison decided there would be little point in following Harry to class. He knew that, for the next several weeks, Harry and Ron would face nothing more dangerous than Bludgers. The thought of Quiddich made him humm slightly under his breath; he could not wait until he was solid enough to fly, and wished that his spectral form did not obey gravity quite so readily. By this time he could, at least, make himself solid enough to hold and move books, and so he decided to spend his time in the Hogwarts library.

His research led him to _Mindscapes for the Muddled_ by C. Xavier, which described a meditative process for accessing and organizing one's consciousness. Harrison spent three weeks reading and meditating in an empty classroom. Over the first few days he wondered, angrily, why Snape never saw fit to teach him how to clear his mind. Xavier's process needed as much patience and concentration as the instructions Death had given him for envisioning a proper body. Two weeks passed before Harrison found the white noise behind his conscious thoughts. It took another week to call up and set aside his confusing swirl of memories, fears, and plans for the upcoming war. At the end of the fourth week, Harrison finally reached the calm oblivion which, according to _Mindscapes for the Muddled_, marked the first step in calming one's mind. He floated there, enjoying a measure of peace for the first time in years.

Something intangible snapped, quite suddenly, and a vertigo–like lurch sent his mind hurtling deeper into itself.

Harrison landed flat on his back and lay still, completely winded. After a long moment of gasping and coughing his diaphram relaxed, he caught his breath, got to his feet, and looked around.

It was a fairly large room with a high, sloping ceiling. Sunlight streamed through four windows in the right-hand wall. Wooden shelves filled with all kinds of broken, misshapen, or well-formed pottery lined the other three walls as well as the space beneath the windows. A large wooden table covered in bags of raw clay took up the middle of the room. More clay and broken crockery lay scattered across the floor. At the end of the table nearest Harrison was a potter's wheel.

He felt heat at his back, turned around, and saw a rough-looking kiln attached to the back wall.

_A studio._ He thought wryly. _I guess that makes sense, even if I'm not quite a Potter anymore. _Smiling, he rolled up his metaphorical sleeves and got to work.

Harrison spent most of October understanding and organizing his mindscape. The misshapen pots turned out to be distorted memories, and the broken ones were things he would have forgotten entirely, given time. The bags of raw clay were new memories. The well-formed pots held the memories he had held onto most fiercely during the decade before Harry turned eleven. His friends' warmth. His godfather's barking laugh. Dumbledore's flawed plan for the Elder Wand. The location of each Horcrux. The tragic love story of Severus Snape and Lily Potter. He fixed what he could, and slowly moved all the pieces of his past life until they filled the wall opposite the windows.

As he worked, Harrison was made to relive the memories in each pot or pot shard. Each new detail made his quest to improve Harry Potter's life seem that much more impossible. He saw how small moments, like Malfoy's insult to Buckbeak in third year, set in motion the events that led up to Sirius's escape. He realized, more clearly than ever before, that this foreknowledge gave him a priceless edge over….Voldemort? Over Dumbledore? Over his own younger self?

Harrison sighed and rubbed his hands over his face.

_I really need a body._

...

The first time Harry brought Ron to meet Hagrid, they were nearly bowled over by an enormous and very excitable black boarhound.

"Make yerselves at home," said Hagrid, letting go of Fang, who bounded straight at Ron and started licking his ears. Ron Hagrid, Fang was clearly not as fierce as he looked.

"This is Ron," Harry told Hagrid, who was pouring boiling water into a large teapot and putting rock cakes on to a plate.

"Another Weasley, eh?" said Hagrid, glancing at Ron's freckles. "How's yer brother Charlie? I liked him a lot – great with animals."

"Yeah, Charlie's fine. Blimey, Hagrid," Ron said, still trying to fend off Fang, "He's huge –"

"Ah don' worry about Fang," said Hagrid, who reached over and dragged the dog off Ron. "Dogs are sops, they are…even the biggest Cerebus goes straight off ter sleep if yer play him a bit o' music – "

Hagrid suddenly looked horrified.

"I shouldn'ta told yeh that!" he blurted out. "Forget I said that!"

Harry and Ron looked at each other and shrugged. They spent the next few minutes telling Hagrid all about their first lessons, including the disastrous first Potions lesson, where Harry hadn't been able to answer any of Professor Snape's questions.

Hagrid and Ron agreed that Harry shouldn't worry about it too much because Snape was notoriously bad-tempered.

"But he seemed to really _hate _me."

"Rubbish!" said Hagrid. "Why should he?"

Yet Harry couldn't help thinking that Hagrid didn't quite meet his eyes when he said that.

Ron went to pick up the tea cosy and picked up Hagrid's copy of the Daily Prophet instead, which had been lying underneath it. One of the headlines had caught his eye.

"Look at this, mate. The Gringotts thing. I told you about it on the train, remember?"

"Oh, yeah."

The headline read _GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST_ and, to Harry's surprise, it said that the vault in question had been emptied on the same day as the attempted robbery. His birthday, July 31st.

Harry grinned.

"Ron, get this – me and Hagrid were at Gringotts the same day! Weren't we, Hagrid?" Hagrid grunted. This time he definitely didn't meet Harry's eyes. Harry kept going. "How cool would it've been if the break-in'd been happening while we were there?"

Ron grinned back. "Wicked."

"Er – Ron, what kind o' work is Charlie doing? Yer never said." Harry let Hagrid change the subject. He settled back in his chair and re-read the article, thinking about Hagrid's "secret Hogwart's business" and the grubby little package in vault seven hundred and thirteen. That vault was certainly empty once they'd left.

Harry didn't believe in coincidences.


	4. Monsters

CRASH.

Harrison jumped. He had been sitting cross-legged in an empty classroom on the second floor, working to solidify his body.

_What the bloody hell was that? _It sounded like something heavy and metallic had fallen over somewhere on the floor above.

_And that,_ he thought after a moment, _is exactly what happened. Hah! We'll find Fluffy in a moment._

He settled back down, content that everything was going as planned.

He was wrong.

...

_This, _Harry thought, _was not part of the plan._ Damn Malfoy for setting them up, and damn Ron for being a clumsy arse. Filch had spooked his gangly friend, who tripped over his own feet and fell headlong into a suit of armour. The clanging and crashing were enough to wake the whole castle.

"RUN!" Harry yelled and the two of them sprinted down the gallery, not looking back to see whether Filch was following – they swung around the doorpost and galloped down one corridor and another, Harry in the lead without any idea where they were or where they were going. They came out near the Charms classroom, which they knew was miles from the trophy room.

"I think we've lost him," Harry panted, leaning against the cold wall and wiping his forehead.

"We've got – to get back - to Gryffindor tower," Ron gasped, "quickly as possible."

Harry nodded. "Malfoy tricked us. He was never going to duel us – Filch knew someone was going to be in the trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off." He laughed weakly. "He's as bad as Dudley, but smarter."

"Who?"

"Muggle cousin I live with. Duddy Dursley. Awful bloke."

Ron made a face as they set off. They hadn't gone more than a dozen paces when a doorknob rattled and something came shooting out of a classroom in front of them.

It was Peeves. He caught sight of them and cackled.

"Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, Naughty," he sang, "you'll get caughty."

"Not if you don't give us away, Peeves, please."

"Should tell Filch, I should," said Peeves in a saintly voice, but his eyes glittered wickedly. "It's for your own good, you know."

"Get out of the way," snapped Ron, taking a swipe at Peeves – this was a big mistake.

"STUDENTS OUT OF BED!" Peeves bellowed. "STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!"

They ran for it. At the end of the corridor they slammed into a door, but it was locked.

"This is it!" Ron moaned, as they pushed helplessly at the door. "We're done for! This is the end!"

They could hear footsteps, Filch running as fast as he could toward Peeves' shouts.

"Oh, move over," Harry snarled, getting a hold on his panic. He tapped the lock and whispered "_Alohomora!_"

It was one of the first things he'd looked up in the Hogwarts library. He was a wizard, and he refused to let anybody shut him in a cupboard.

The lock clicked and the door swung open – they piled through it, shut it quickly and pressed their ears against it, listening. Peeves obviously decided that teasing Filch was more fun, because he didn't give them away. Harry closed his eyes in relief.

Ron wimpered and tugged on the sleeve of Harry's dressing-gown.

"What?"

Harry turned around – and saw, quite clearly, what. For a moment, he was sure he'd walked into a nightmare – this was too much, on top of everything that had happened so far.

They weren't in a room, as he had supposed. They were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third floor. And now they knew why it was forbidden.

They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog which filled the whole space between ceiling and floor. It had three heads and was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them, and Harry knew that the only reason they weren't already dead was that their sudden appearance had taken it by surprise. A low, rumbling growl began filling the corridor.

Ron tried to scream. Harry clapped a hand over his mouth and started humming "God Save the Queen."

It was a faltering, rather out-of-tune "God Save the Queen," but from the first note the beast's eyes began to droop. Harry hardly drew breath. Slowly, the dog's growls ceased – it tottered on its paws and fell to its knees, then it slumped to the ground, fast asleep.

Harry kept humming as he groped for the doorknob – between Filch and death, he'd take Filch.

They fell backwards – Harry slammed the door shut, and they ran, they almost flew, back down the corridor. Filch was nowhere to be seen, and they didn't stop running until they reached the Gryffindor common room.

"What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?" Ron said, as they collapsed into two of the squashy armchairs by the fire. "If any dog needs exercise, that one does."

Harry chuckled. Ron caught his eye and giggled, which made Harry laugh, which started a chain reaction fueled by relief and adrenaline.

"Harry," Ron said, as their laughter began to fade, how'd you know to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Sing it to sleep, of course."

"That's what Hagrid said about big dogs, like kere..kareb…"

Ron's eyes were huge in the firelight. "Cerebus! That's right! What are they using it for, d'you reckon?"

"Huh?"

"Cerebus in stories are always guarding _something_."

Harry sat up excitedly, and was about to tell Ron his theory about Gringotts and the package from vault seven hundred and thirteen, but a girl's voice interrupted him.

"A _Cerebus? _They're very rare – Where on earth have you been?" Hermione Granger, the first year girl who showed everyone up in class, stood at the bottom of the stairs to the girls' dormitory. She gestured at their disheveled pajamas and sweaty faces.

Harry and Ron looked at each other, then back at her.

"Er…"

"You tried to get into the third floor corridor, didn't you?" She glared at them. "A Cerebus. _Honestly._ I hope you're pleased with yourselves. You could have been killed – or worse, expelled."

Ron stared as she flounced back upstairs.

"That girl's got to re-think her priorities."

Harry snorted.

"She's right, though. We shouldn't have let Malfoy get to us in the first place."

"He's Slytherin," Ron shrugged, "they're all sneaky gits."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. At the Dursleys, being sneaky often meant not being hungry, and it was Ron's definite lack of sneakiness which almost got them caught just now. Maybe the Sorting Hat was right.

_They can't be all that bad, _he thought. _It's just Malfoy_.

...

October 31, 1991

The Hallowe'en decorations were just as good as Harrison remembered. He felt a twinge of jealousy as Ron stuffed his face with treacle tart.

_I miss food._

Then, the moment he had been waiting for: Quirrell burst into the Great Hall, ran to the headmaster, and sent everyone into a panic about the troll in the dungeons. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of Dumbledore's wand to bring silence.

"Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

Harrison followed Percy and the rest of Gryffindor house outside and up the stairs. A crowd of confused Hufflepuffs barrelled through him and down the corridor that led to the kitchens.

Harry suddenly grabbed Ron's arm.

"I've just thought – the Slytherins."

"Huh?"

Harrison was as baffled as Ron.

"Their common room is in the dungeons! They're heading right for it!"

"Harry, what – _ooph!_" Someone's shoulder hit Ron in the chest as Harry dragged him down the stairs, against the crowd "– but how do you _know _where the – "

"No idea! I just do! Come _on, _Ron!"

Dumbledore revived Quirrell as soon as the prefects began herding their charges out of the hall. Neither Harry, Ron, nor Harrison saw the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher standing at the entrance to the Great Hall as they ran past him toward the dungeons.

_Harry…Potter, _said the high, cold voice in Quirrell's head. _Concerned for Sssslytherins?_

Snape's sudden appearance distracted Harry and Ron, who hid behind a stone griffin. They made to follow the hook-nosed professor once they realized he was headed for the third floor. Then Ron put out a hand.

"Can you hear something?"

They stopped. Harrison heard grunting, heavy footfalls, then a high, petrified scream from the girls' toilets around the corner. The boys looked at each other, horrified.

"Oh, no."

"_Hermione!_" they said together.

"We've got to help, come on!" said Ron. He grabbed Harry and pulled them toward the toilets.

"Hold on," Harry turned quickly back around and put his hands around his mouth. "SNAPE!" he yelled, then caught up with Ron. The red head looked more horrified than ever.

"What was _that _for?" he said as they turned the corner.

"He's still a teacher, Ron, and we don't know _anything _about bloody trolls!"

Harrison laughed as he jogged behind the two boys. _Would you look at that. He's a lot cleverer than I was._

When they reached the toilets, Hermione was huddled against the opposite wall, looking as if she was about to faint. The troll was advancing on her, knocking sinks off the walls as it went.

"Confuse it!" Harry said desperately to Ron, and seizing a tap he threw it as hard as he could against the wall. It shattered a mirror and shards of glass scattered across the floor.

The troll stopped a few feet from Hermione. It lumbered around, blinking stupidly, to see what had made the noise. It hesitated, then made for Harry instead, lifting its club as it went.

"Oy, pea-brain!" yelled Ron from the other side of the chamber, and he threw a metal pipe at it. He missed. The troll paused again, turning its ugly snout towards Ron instead, giving Harry time to run around it.

"Come on, run, _run_!" Harry yelled at Hermione, trying to pull her towards the door, but she couldn't move, she was still pressed against the wall, her mouth open in terror.

"STUPIFY!" Snape's deep baritone had never been so welcome. There was a flash of red light and the troll swayed, shook its head, and roared. A line of thick saliva flew from its mouth and hit the front of Ron's robes. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all flinched. Snape did not even blink.

Professor McGonagall burst past Snape, took a split-second glance around the room and threw out an arm to shield Ron from the angry troll.

"On my count, Severus! Three, two, one…"

"STUPIFY!" Twin jets of red light hit the troll square in the face. It started to keel over backward, right at Harry and Hermione.

"_Potter!_" – "RUN, HERMIONE!" Professor Snape and Harry yelled at the same moment. The girl shrieked and tried to cover her head, but Harry dragged her out of the troll's path, toward the teachers.

WHAM.

The troll shattered the tiles where Hermione had crouched a second before. There was a wheezing groan as air rushed out of the troll's lungs before it lay still, unconscious. Water gushed from broken plumbing all around them

"Oh! Good heavens." Everyone turned to look as Professor Quirrell arrived and sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart.

Snape bent over the troll. Professor McGonagall was looking at Ron and Harry. Harry had never seen her look so angry. Her lips were white. Hopes of winning fifty points for Gryffindor faded quickly from Harry's mind.

"What in Merlin's name were you thinking?" said Professor McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?"

Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look. Harry looked at the floor. He wished Ron would put his wand down.

Then a small voice came out of the shadows.

"Please, Professor McGonagall – they were looking for me."

...

Harrison smiled at Harry and Ron's incredulous faces as Hermione lied to keep them out of trouble. The professors clearly weren't fooled, judging by the look Snape gave McGonagall, but the Potions Master didn't question her judgement.

_Five points, _he thought on the way back to the library, _She's as easy on the Gryffindors as he is on the Slytherins._

He couldn't wait for Harry's first game of Quiddich.


	5. Defense Against the Dark Arts

"Fess up, Harry."

Harry looked up from his Potions homework. He was sitting in the library. Ron slid into the seat opposite him, a small frown on his face.

"What?"

"I thought we were mates."

"We are," Harry said.

"Well…did you go looking for the Slytherin's common room? Without me?"

"No, why?"

"Why d'you think it's in the dungeons, then?"

"There's always Slytherins going down there after we eat, I – "

"That's not what you said before! You said you had _no idea_ – "

"What does it matter, Ron?" said Harry, getting cross. Ron was right, he didn't know why he'd been so certain the Slytherins slept in the dungeons. It had come to him with a flash of urgency that he'd been unable to explain, even to himself. It unnerved him.

Hermione was on her way out of the library with several books cradled in her arms and her school bag over one shoulder. She stopped at their table and tucked a bit of unruly hair behind one ear.

"Hi, Harry; hi, Ron"

"'Lo, Hermione." said Ron.

"You ought to come with me, or you'll be late for Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Harry hurridly packed his things. Hermione led the way out of the library, chattering about the upcoming class.

"Sorry, mate." Harry said quietly to Ron, so Hermione wouldn't hear.

"Yeah, all right."

...

The desks and chairs were precariously (and, presumably, magically) stacked along the walls of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. The first year students stood in a wide circle around a cotton training dummy, which was on fire.

"N-not quite, Mr F-finnigan," said Professor Quirrell, who was supervising the class from the balcony that led to his office. A small jet of water shot from his wand, arched over the ring of students, and put out the fire. "Ms B-brown, you next."

Lavender Brown pointed her wand at the dummy.

"_Verdi…verdimilus!_" she cried. One green spark shot from her wand and fizzled out halfway between her and her target.

"Again, m-more slowly; _ver-di-mil-li-ous._" said Professor Quirrell.

Lavender took a deep breath. "_Verdimillious!_"

This time she produced a shower of sparks; most fizzled out too quickly, but a few reached the dummy and left small marks on its left arm.

"Good. Mr P-potter!"

Harry licked his lips, breathed in, and focused on his pronunciation.

"_Verdimillious!_" A dozen green sparks flew at the dummy, hit its torso, and left a splotchy burn mark. The dummy swayed slightly.

"Very well d-done, P-p-potter. One p-point for Gryffindor. W-w-weasley!"

Ron was on Harry's left. He hit the dummy's leg on the second try. They continued around the circle and, once everyone had tried casting the spell, Professor Quirrell shrunk the dummy to half its original size and instructed them to have another go.

As he waited his turn, Harry scratched his nose and wondered if Hagrid would like to have tea next Tuesday. It had been interesting, last time, apart from the rock cakes.

The dummy caught fire, again, and he looked up to watch the water jet. His eyes met Professor Quirrell's.

...

_\- a small, cluttered room and the sense of heat – Weasley and the gamekeeper at a wooden table –"Dogs are easy…straight off ter sleep…bit o' music" – the THUD of three huge, sleeping canine heads hiting a stone floor and a wooden trapdoor – _

The water hit the smoldering dummy with a soft _pht_; Potter blinked and turned back to the circle, cutting off the stream of images. Quirrell called on the next student without pause.

_Interesting._

The Dark Lord shifted in the dark space behind Quirrell's conscious mind. Potter had seen Hagrid's beast. Not only seen it, but calmed it, _and_ managed to escape with no one the wiser. Quick-witted, then.

The Hallowe'en incident showed he was brave, too, as befitted a Gryffindor, though not as reckless as his freckled shadow. Once the wrecked bathroom had been cleared of students, Snape had told McGonagall and his servant that Potter called for help before rushing after the troll.

He had yet to hear any comment on Potter's magical aptitude, but the boy showed promise, at least in his servant's class. Today he and Granger were the only ones to hit the target on the first try, and Granger did noticibly less damage.

And now the boy had (unwittingly) provided a valuable kernel of information; the first obstacle to the Stone. The Dark Lord had, of course, already known how to subdue a Cerebus, but it helped to be prepared. His servant had been too slow to reach the third floor on Hallowe'en, even with the distraction.

_Useless man_.

His displeasure bled through to Quirrell's mind. The man twitched and stuttered even more.

Harry rubbed his forehead as he, Ron, and Hermione left Defense Against the Dark Arts. He _really _disliked headaches. The only thing that got rid of them was a potion, and he was pants at Potions. Why wasn't there an Aspirin Charm? Perhaps he'd invent one.

"Hermione, what's Latin for aspirin?"

Hermione blinked.

"Aspirin's a brand, not a…a _thing_, so there wouldn't be a word for it. Why?"

"What's aspirin?" asked Ron before Harry could speak.

"A Muggle drug that dulls pain. The active ingredient is in willow bark, actually, which makes it very ironic that the Whomping Willow – "

"The _what?_" said Harry.

"The tree a little ways off from Hagrid's hut, it – "

"_Hermione_," Ron whined, and she glared at him. "Harry, why'd you want a Muggle thing in Latin?" Harry shrugged.

"Most spells sound like they're in Latin, or something, and – "

"Oh, but they're _not!_" Hermione looked scandelized.

Ron frowned. "Aren't they? Charlie said – "

"No, they most definitely aren't. _Verdimillious_ sounds almost French, but – "

Hermione then gave them a lesson on the awkward resemblance between spell incantations and words from various Romance languages which lasted until lunch. Ron wasn't much interested, but Harry was fascinated. He told Hermione his plan for a headache charm. They brainstormed incantation ideas and, amid a fit of giggles, chose _T__é__tesur_.

"_T__é__tesur_!" Hermione gasped, laughing "Apply directly to the forehead! _T__é__tesur_! Apply directly to the forehead! _T__é__tesur_! –"

"_Please, _no! Hermione…ahaha…"

Ron shook his head at them and poured gravy over his mashed potatos.

"Ah, _Muggles_," Harry said, once he caught his breath.

Hermione's smile faded.

"Why did you say it like that? You grow up with Muggles, didn't you?"

"Yes." Harry's face went blank. He looked down and started buttering a piece of bread.

"My dad loves Muggles," said Ron. "He works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office at the Ministry, and he's always bringing rubbish home with him. Last weak it was a broken toastie – "

"Toaster," said Hermione.

"Right, toaster, and someone cursed it to bite you when you stuck its tail in the wall holes –"

Harry snorted at exactly the wrong moment, got pumpkin juice up his sinuses, and started coughing. Ron slapped him on the back and had another forkful of potato.

"'S aw'ight ma'e," he said, then swallowed. "Have some water."

Hermione turned her face into her hand and sighed.

...

Harrison stood in his mindscape facing the wall of shelves. The windows behind him let in a patch of sunlight (regardless of the weather outside his mind) which covered the bottom two shelves and a good deal of floor. Tiny flecks of clay dust caught the light, making it seem almost tangible, but Harrison paid it no mind.

He was staring at a pot. Several pots, actually. Well-formed ones and one or two broken ones, all covered in a blue glaze that was slightly irridescent.

Harrison had been spinning Harry's troll adventure into a squat, intentionally lumpy vase when the blue pots caught his eye, forcefully, as though they were themselves the eyes of someone who wanted his attention. He had shaken his head and returned to the wheel, but could not shake the feeling that these blue pots _wanted his attention_.

So he turned off the wheel and stood up. Pots. Eyes. Blue pots. Slightly shiny blue pots. Shiny blue _eyes?_ Ron had (_has. This Ron is still Ron._) blue eyes. So do most of the Weasleys. Malfoy didn't (_doesn't_), his are grey. Like his father.

Harrison picked up the nearest shard of blue pot.

_\- Dumbledore sitting in the Defense Against the Dark Arts office – "Who'd have thought it? That brings her total of real predictions up to two. I should –"_

The shard fell through his fingers and _tinked _on the floor. Dumbledore. Dumbledore has blue eyes.

More importantly, the headmaster had mentioned Trelawney's prediction, _the _prediction, in his third year. Sure, he knew Dumbledore had thought thirteen was too young to be told about it, but why hadn't Harrison at least asked?

He bent to get the shard off the floor, replaced it on the shelf, and touched a big one beside it.

_\- "The consequences of our actions are always so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business indeed" – "…in saving Pettigrew's life…" – "I knew your father very well, both at Hogwarts and later, Harry. He would have saved Pettigrew too, I am sure of it." Harry looked up at him. _Dumbledore wouldn't laugh…he could tell Dumbledore... – "

Harrison drew away. He'd heard the headmaster speak, in third person, without moving his lips.

_It wasn't like that_, he thought_, it was me; I was the one thinking, debating whether to tell him about seeing my 'dad' cast the Patronus. Wasn't I?_

He touched the shard again, replaying the memory. Either Dumbledore routinely thought in third person and thirteen-year-old Harry (_Harrison. My name is Harrison_) spontaneously used Legilimency on a master Occlumens, or…or Dumbledore was thinking for him.

Harrison shook his head, walked back to the potter's wheel, and sat down. He'd looked at Dumbledore; and the headmaster planted a suggestion. Just…like that, in the middle of conversation. How often had that _happened?_ It couldn't possibly be legal, either, and…and…

The conversation had been about time travel, saving lives, and his father. Why, _why_ hadn't Harrison asked if Dumbledore had used a Time Turner back in 1981 to try and save his parents' lives? Two teenagers saved Sirius and Buckbeak. Why not Lily and James Potter?

He jumped up and went through the blue pots, one by one. Each memory or fragment of memory involved twinkling blue eyes and varying types of compulsion magic. With every pot his anger burnt a little hotter, and he resolved to never accept tea, lemon drops, or anything else from _dear_ Professor Dumbledore.

Compulsions counted as Dark magic; they had to. Using someone's own mind to control their actions was definitely Dark. Bit hypocritical for the ultimate Light wizard, but, then again, Dumbledore had shared a lot with Grindlewald (_including saliva? Focus, Harrison._) during his youth. It didn't matter how guilty one felt after doing something they knew was wrong, if they went ahead and did it anyway. Harrison was suddenly very, very glad to have had Occlumency lessons from Death itself; this time, he would be able to defend himself.

Sirius, he realized, shouldn't have needed saving in the first place. Dumbledore cast the Fideleus over the house in Godric's Hollow; he knew exactly who the Secret Keeper was, as Lily and James could not have changed Secret Keepers without his help. Did Sirius get a trial? Was the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot incapable of asking for one? Did he _forget_ about Sirius? For _twelve years_?

In the midst of his fuming, Harrison decided that he loved his mindscape. It was better (and more portable) than any Pensieve.

...


	6. Gryffindor vs Slytherin

Harry adored flying and he enjoyed the practice sessions with Oliver Wood, but the thought of actually playing Quiddich in front of a thousand people made his stomach roll. The game was set for the last Saturday of November.

In the weeks leading up to the game he spent every spare moment in the library with Hermione, thinking up worst case scenarios and researching potentially useful spells. It was an ambitious project which took them well outside the nmal first year curriculum.

What if it rained, or snowed, and he couldn't see? They learned to make his glasses water resistant with _Impervius_. Hermione already knew _Occulus Reparo_, in case his glasses broke, but what if they fell off entirely? She found the Sticking Charm in an old copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three_. What if he got a head wound, and the blood got in his eyes? _Episkey_ should stem the bleeding. What if a Bludger knocked him off his broom? _Arresto Momentum_ ought to slow him down.

Harry was very glad to have befriended Hermione. He took twice as long as her to finish his homework, so she spent that time researching the spells they wanted to learn. She relished the challenge of finding and mastering spells above their year and, whereas her logical mind sometimes had trouble working a spell, Harry had an almost instinctual connection to his magic. He always knew how to make them work, though he thought his spells weren't very strong. They found he also had a knack for teaching, so he coached her, and afterward she proofread his homework. They made a good team.

Ron thought they were both mad. He kept reassuring them that Quiddich wasn't that dangerous, really, but neither Harry nor Hermione had even seen a match before, much less played in one, and they agreed that Harry couldn't take any chances. Ron gave up after two weeks and settled for rolling his eyes. He spent a lot of time playing chess (which he was very good at) and Exploding Snap (which he was reasonably good at) with Seamus or Dean.

Harry and Hermione were happy to let him go. They learned the hard way that Ron couldn't spend an hour in the library without whining about boredom, hunger, or both.

...

The first time Malfoy saw them practicing together, he claimed loudly that they'd need more than a few spells to help Gryffindor win. The second time he saw them, he made kissing noises and taunted Harry for having a girlfriend. The third time, he made a rude remark involving Hermione's teeth, rodents, and Harry's low standards.

Harry snapped and used the Sticking Charm to glue Malfoy's lips together.

Malfoy ran to Madam Pomfrey, who got him unstuck, and to Professor Snape, who told Professor McGonagall, who took ten points from Gryffindor and told Harry to watch his temper. Malfoy had the gall to be smug about it, but he also stopped bothering them in the library

...

Lee Jordan's voice echoed over the pitch.

"Slytherin in possession - Flint with the Quaffle - passes Spinnet - Passes Bell - "

Harrison ignored the Chasers and cheering Slytherin spectators. He was the only one so far who noticed that the Gryffindor Seeker's broom was trying to buck him off.

"- hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose - only joking, Professor - Slytherin score - oh, no - Wood in possession - Passes to Bell - Passes to...Potter! I mean, Professor! Look! Something's wrong with Potter!"

The whole crowd gasped as the Nimbus Two Thousand gave a wild jerk and swung Harry off. The boy was now dangling from the broom, holding on with only one hand.

_Come on, Hermione!_ thought Harrison. Any moment now, she would bang into Quirrell and set Snape on fire.

Fred and George circled several feet under Harry, having tried and failed to pull him onto one of their brooms. A Bludger came whistling toward the Seeker and George batted it toward the Gryffindor goal posts, where Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint was happily taking advantage of the distraction by scoring as many points as he could.

Katie Bell tried to sneak up on Harry's broom from above, to steady it or to get to Harry, but it swooped downward, away from her. Harry managed to grab it with the other hand and swing one leg over the handle. The crowd cheered.

_Where's Hermione?_

The broom shot forward. Harry gripped the broom like a sloth, but he was upside-down and could not get his feet on the foot rests. The broom sped across the pitch, gathering speed, then stopped, very suddenly, sixty feet from the ground. Harry's grip broke and he flew forward, hurtling end over end through the air. Harrison's stomach dropped and he yelled, as did most of the audience.

"_Arresto Momentum! - ARRESTO MOMENTUM! - urk - "_

The spell came, not from Madam Hooch, but from Harry himself. With the first attempt he stopped spinning, and with the second he slowed down dramatically, but he lost his concentration about twelve feet from the ground and dropped with an audible _thud_. Harrison goggled at his younger self. Over the noise of the crowd he heard Hagrid's voice yelling Harry's name.

Harry rolled onto his hands and knees, one hand on his throat, retching. A spray of blood and several small objects hit the sand in front of him. The hand on his throat whipped out to grab one of the objects as his teammates landed and ran toward him.

PHREEEEET!

"Out of the way, _get out of the way!" _Madam Hooch pushed past the Gryffindor team, blowing her whistle. She knelt down beside Harry, talking quietly. Harrison saw the boy nod and open his hand, offering its contents to Hooch.

"Merlin's _balls_, HE'S GOT THE SNITCH! - Sorry, Professor, but it's perfectly reasonable because GRYFFINDOR WINS! A HUNDRED AND SEVENTY POINTS TO SIXTY! - Don't know what happened there, but still an awesome debut performance by the Gryffindor Seeker - Take that, Flintface - "

Lee's voice faded as Harrison went with Madam Hooch and a gaggle of well wishers, including Ron and Hermione, who cheered as they escorted Harry to the hospital wing.

...

Harry walked away from the match with a large assortment of bruises and four broken teeth from where he'd nearly swallowed the Snitch. Madam Pomfrey gave him a pot of burn salve and insisted he stay in the hospital wing for several hours as he waited for his teeth to regrow.

Harrison stood at the end of the bed, listening, as Ron and Hermione told their friend what they thought Snape had done during the game. Harry, unable to talk around his re-growing teeth, did his best to communicate with hands and facial expressions.

The spectre frowned. Hermione had meant to light Snape's robes on fire, just like last time, but the broom had already thrown Harry off by the time she reached the opposite side of the stands.

_It's different, but not by much, and the outcome is nearly the same_.

Ron took back what he said about Quiddich not being dangerous, and was deeply impressed that Harry had the sense to slow down his own fall and catch the Snitch all in one. Harrison silently agreed with him

Hagrid arrived with a packet of rock cakes and two flagons of pumpkin juice. A couple minutes later, Ron compared Harry's fast thinking with "that time he started _singing_ when we nearly got eaten by a Cerebus the size of a - "

Hagrid interrupted with the bombshell that the damn beast was named _Fluffy_. Harrison snickered at the children's faces and relaxed, recognizing where things were going.

He was right. Within two minutes Harry, Ron and Hermione knew Flamel was somehow involved in their Great Cerebus Mystery.

Harrison never understood why Dumbledore included Harrison in this farce. He loved Hagrid dearly, but the man was a ridiculously easy source of information for the trio of troublemakers. Too easy.

_Please_, Harrison thought, closing his eyes. _Don't let this be a set up_.

He spent the next several days in his mindscape, going over memories of the challenges they'd overcome on their way to the Stone. It was no use. The challenges were too perfectly tailored to their skills and experiences: Hagrid's dog, a plant covered in first year Herbology, a small flying object, a chess set, a troll, a logic puzzle. The Mirror was the only thing they could not have overcome with a little thought and effort, and Dumbledore had effectively shown it to Harry that very Christmas.

Harrison slammed a fist into the studio wall. It didn't hurt as sharply as he thought it would. It didn't help, either.

_Nothing you can do about it, yet._

He breathed, concentrated, opened his eyes in the now-empty hospital wing, and set off for a quiet place to practice his corporeality. He was furious with Dumbledore and he had no body.

_Voldemort's a dick, but he was right about one thing. Ten years of this is enough to drive you to murder._

That thought stopped him in the middle of a corridor, heedless of the students passing through him. He wasn't homicidal. Not really, At least, he hoped not.

...

It so happened that the Dark Lord had, in light of recent events, decided homicide was not the most favorable course of action. Harry Potter's _Arresto Momentum_ demonstrated forward thinking, grace under pressure, and magical prowess: traits he greatly appreciated in his followers, not in his prophesied enemies.

But Potter was young and, if rumor were true, very new to the magical world. Perhaps he could be...persuaded.

"Er, professor?"

Quirrell's head rose from his paperwork. He sat at the desk in his classroom, grading fifth year essays.

_Ah, hello_. The Dark Lord purred, quietly, where Quirrell could not hear him. _Let's see what you want, boy._ Potter appeared curious and slightly apprehensive. His eyes were very green.

"How may I help you, Mr P-p-potter?"

"Can you...I mean, would you be willing to give me extra defense lessons?"

Quirrell looked so shocked that Potter took a step back and started apologizing. The Dark Lord gave his servant a hard mental nudge to accept before Potter left entirely.

"Y-yes, of course, Mr Potter, but you hardly n-need them." Potter made a face.

"Professor, I've only been here three months, and I've already been attacked by a troll, my own broom, and...well, yeah. Is that normal, sir?"

"Hmm!" Quirrell made a nervous, high-pitched noise in his throat as the Dark Lord's hissing laughter rang inside his head. "N-n-no. Er. Quite right, Mr P-potter, quite right. C-come back this t-time W-w-Wednesday and we'll get st-started."

...

Ron was waiting for him outside the Defense classroom. They started off toward the Great Hall for lunch.

"I still don't get why you want lessons from _Quirrell_. I mean, his classes are fine, but the stutter's going to drive you up the wall."

Harry sighed.

"I like Quirrell, ok? He's...safe."

"Safe." Ron deadpanned. "Safer than Snape, maybe, but he's still a cowardly dolt in a turban."

Harry just looked at the taller boy until he began to fidget.

"Yeah, alright. Quirrell." Ron threw his hands up in dramatic surrender.


	7. Harry's First Christmas

Christmas was coming. The whole lake surface froze and, one morning in late December, the castle awoke to find itself covered in a thick layer of snow. While the Hogwarts house elves kept roaring fires going in the common rooms and the Great Hall, they could do little about the castle's draughty corridors or the bitter wind which rattled the windows in the classrooms.

One advantage of not having a proper body was that Harrison Black could take a window seat in the library and not worry about the chill coming off the glass. His window showed a picturesque view of the grounds and part of the Forbidden Forest, white and glinting in the weak winter sun. He admired it, then turned in his seat to face the towering wall of books and closed his eyes, breathing slowly and steadily until the quiet hum of voices and rustling paper faded away.

\- _clenched fists, short nails biting into palms - the curved, slightly dented handle of a holly wand - a cloak that slipped through his hands like water, smoother than silk - the warm, scratchy warmth of a green jumper - _

Harrison opened his eyes and stared straight ahead, concentrating hard. When he raised his hands they were a pale pearly grey, barely visible, and faded into nothing at the elbow. He ran his fingers down the spines of the books, ignoring their titles, focusing intently on the feel of their rough, bumpy, smooth, indented, or cracked leather surfaces. He let one hand close around a thick, dark brown volume with an interesting ridged spine, pulled it out from the shelf, and let the open end fall into his other hand. For several minutes he stood there, concentrating on the textures under his fingers, feeling the weight drag on invisible shoulders. Anyone looking at him would see a book held in mid-air by two ghostly forearms.

_Thud_. The book fell through Harrison's hands and hit the carpet as the thing that had distracted him - a group of giggling third year boys - passed by the far end of the narrow row.

_Best time yet_, he thought as he watched his hands slowly disappear. He'd just managed fifteen minutes of partial corporeality. Hopefully, though, his permanent body would look more like a warm-blooded, twenty-something human man and less like Nearly Headless Nick. Harrison stood, deciding he deserved a break, and went in search of the Golden Trio.

For the past few weeks Harry, Ron and Hermione had been coming into the library during their breaks and on weekends to hunt for information on Nicholas Flamel, just as Harrison and his two best friends had done during their first year. He found Ron and Hermione near the library entrance. Hermione was going through a list of promising subjects, while Ron walked up and down nearby aisles pulling books out at random. Watching them, Harrison had an idea.

_Here's something! _he though, his chest filling with excitement, _I can do this. I can help._ It was just a little thing. The future wouldn't change much if his friends (_correction, Harry's friends_) found out about Flamel before Christmas. He wouldn't be playing God, not really, if he just made their search a little easier.

Harrison shut his eyes again and entered his mindscape. After a brief search he found a memory from after his first Christmas at Hogwarts, when he'd cheered up Neville with a few hearty words and a chocolate frog. He rewound the memory twice until he found the name of the book Hermione had taken for "light reading," as well as the page number of the passage on Flamel.

Back in the library, it was but the work of a moment to find the book and leave it on a nearby table. A seventh year saw his disembodied forearms, but seemed to dismiss the sight as just another quirk of life at Hogwarts.

Ron and Hermione returned with their stack of books. Harrison smiled when he saw the titles Hermione'd picked out: _Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, Important Modern Magical Discoveries, _and _A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry_. They were talking as they sat down at the table where Harrison's book lay open.

" - what Harry would like for Christmas?"

"Hmm. Mum's sending him fudge from me. Just ask him when he's done with Quirrell." Hermione wrinkled her nose, clearly remembering her parents' opinion of fudge.

_What's Harry doing with Quirrell?_ Harrison glanced between Ron and Hermione, distracted. Neither seemed concerned, _But_, Harrison thought uneasily, _nobody knows Voldemort's under his turban._ He strode out of the library toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, then broke into a run as a knot of worry hardened in his stomach.

...

Harry shivered. He sat at a desk across from Professor Quirrell in the Defense classroom, which was warmer than the Potions class in the dungeons, but he missed the fireplace in Gryffindor tower.

This was his fourth weekly lesson with Professor Quirrell. They'd started with simple dueling moves like _Expelliarmus_, the Disarming Spell, until Harry mentioned the "swell and pull" of his magic. Quirrell had paused the lesson with a frown. Harry'd grinned when the professor asked him to describe exactly what it felt like to cast a spell.

Magic felt _wonderful_. It was a wellspring of sparkling warmth which expanded through his chest in the breath before a spell and rushed through his wand arm as he said an incantation. He always felt himself drawing out less of his magical fire if the incantation was wrong, because he just _knew_ it was wrong even as he said it, and his magic obeyed that intuitive mental undercurrent before the rest of him had time to catch up.

Professor Quirrell was impressed. While it wasn't unusual for a wizard to be able to sense his magical power in action, such wizards couldn't do it until after they turned seventeen. And so Harry and Quirrell set about testing the limits of Harry's control with a charm he already knew, _Wingardium Leviosa_. Harry practiced drawing out less and less magic for the spell, until he could use a mere threat of magic to make a quill lift _just_ off the table. Today they intended to go in the opposite direction: using incrementally larger amounts of power to raise heavier and heavier objects.

Professor Quirrell said that Harry's magical awareness could be very useful one day, and insisted that letting such a skill languish would be a terrible waste.

...

"Useful for _what_, you creepy bastard?!" shouted Harrison. Of course, nobody heard. Quirrell continued using Substantive Charms to weigh down one of the desks as Harry used increasingly powerful Levitating Charms to lift it off the classroom floor. The boy was grinning widely and starting to sweat. Quirrell merely looked pleased. Harrison was furious, shocked and, above all, scared. Part of him registered that the professor no longer stuttered.

Harry was getting extra lessons. From Quirrell. From _Voldemort_.

_Maybe,_ thought Harrison, somewhat hysterically, _they're both tutoring him. Quirrell and Voldemort. Quirrellmort. Oh...God...this is bad. Really bad._

When did this start? How had Harrison not noticed? And, above all else, what did these lessons mean for the timeline in this world? Would everything be changed beyond recognition? Were his memories now useless? Had he spent years practicing corporeality for _nothing_?

Harrison focused back on the room as teacher and student lowered their wands. Their conversation made him feel even worse.

_Christ...is Quirrellmort _grooming_ him?_

The spectre gave the two wizards his undivided attention. He'd finish his existential crisis later.

...

Professor Quirrell moved to sit behind his desk.

"You've got the gist of it now, Potter. Practice precision levitation over the holidays...but if I hear reports of you moving something preposterous, like a house table, I will be very disappointed in you." The professor leveled a warning look at him, then sat back with a faint smile. "If you insist on showing off, well...don't get caught."

Harry tried not to smile.

"Next term we'll start on Stunning spells, and - yes?"

"Is that what Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall used on the troll?" Harry asked. Professor Quirrell twitched. Harry remembered that the man had fainted on Hallowe'en and rather wished he'd kept his mouth shut, but Quirrell was already speaking.

"Yes - it took two Stunners to the head. Now, Potter, I want you to think - what would you have done if the professors had not been there to save you and your friends?" Harry thought. The troll hadn't noticed the pipe Ron threw, but it reacted to loud noises. COnfuse it with a really loud spell? What if that just made it madder, like Snape's first Stunner? Harry immediately ruled out using Stunning spells himself because, if Snape couldn't take out the troll without help, then a first year certainly couldn't. Perhaps if he combined a loud spell with something else...

Harry's eyes landed on their practice desk. He smiled.

"First, I'd cast something that made a really big noise, to confuse it, then I'd levitate something big and heavy, and drop it on the troll's head. Knock it out, 'cause trolls probably can't be Disarmed." Professor Quirrell nodded.

"Very well done, Potter. Sensible use of Light spells against a...creature most consider Dark." Harry frowned.

"What do you mean? Aren't trolls just Dark anyway?"

Professor Quirrell considered him for a moment before he spoke.

"No. Trolls, like giants, grindylows, and many other creatures, are "Dark" because the Ministry of Magic cannot easily control them. _Wingardium Leviosa_ is likewise a "Light" spell because it is so easy to control; I chose to use it with you for that very reason."

Suddenly Harry felt his performance was rather less impressive than he'd thought. This must have shown on his face, because Quirrell smiled. "What you have done is not insignificant, Mr Potter, though I would still prefer if you did not crow your victories from the highest peak."

"Yes, professor."

...

Harry and the invisible Harrison were halfway down the cold corridor outside the Defense classroom when they saw Ron and Hermione running to meet them, Hermione cradling an enormous old book. Harrison grimaced. He'd forgotten about his attempt to help.

"Harry! Harry, _look!_" said Hermione, her face flushed with excitement. Ron was grinning.

"We found him!"

"_What?"_ Harry's face lit up. Ron grabbed his friend's arm and pulled him into an empty classroom. Hermione propped the book on a desk.

"Nichols Flamel," she whispered dramatically, "is the _only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone!"_

This didn't have quite the effect they'd expected.

"The what?" said Harry.

"I didn't know what it was either." Ron reassured him.

"Oh, _honestly_, don't you two read? Look - read that, there."

She pushed the book towards them, and Harry read. Harrison watched the exchange thoughtfully. Their conversation was almost exactly the same as last time. Maybe, just maybe, the timeline wasn't as easily compromised as he'd first thought.

...

Harrison was right. McGonagall and Flitwick still decorated the Great Hall with holly, mistletoe, and twelve colossal Christmas trees; Harry and Ron still spent the beginning of the holidays plotting ways of getting Malfoy expelled; and Ron still taught Harry to play wizard chess. Harry opened exactly the same presents on Christmas morning, and Ron complained about his latest maroon jumper...though, this time, there was an awkward moment when Harry muttered that at least Ron _had_ a mother to make him ugly sweaters for Christmas. Harrison didn't know what to make of that.

That night, Harrison followed the sound of Harry's footsteps as he wandered around the castle under his invisibility cloak. He wondered where Harry would go, now that he no longer needed to search for Flamel in the Restricted Section.

They had just turned a corner on the fifth floor when Snape's voice rang out somewhere ahead of them.

"The Restricted Section? Well, they can't be far, we'll catch them."

Harry panicked and ran, ducking into a disused classroom. Harrison, jogging noiselessly behind him, was intrigued. That was exactly what Snape said last time. Some other student had clearly snuck into the library, just as he had done. Was the timeline...correcting itself? No, it couldn't. Could it?

While Harry waited for Snape and Filch to pass his hiding spot, Harrison went and stood before the Mirror of Erised.

Nothing.

He sighed. He hadn't really expected the mirror to work for a spectre like him.

"Mum?" Harry whispered, walking through the taller man until his nose nearly touched that of his reflection. "Dad?"

Harrison felt a twinge of jealousy. He wished he could see their family, too.

...

The following night, Harrison trailed Harry and Ron as his younger self brought their friend to see his great discovery. Ron goggled when it revealed his desire to outdo his many brothers and, just like last time, the two friends fought over the mirror before nearly getting caught by Mrs Norris.

The third night, Harrison watched with some distaste as Dumbledore explained the mirror's properties. He disliked how Dumbledore manipulated Harry but was he, Harrison, really any better? He wanted to change certain things _so badly_ in the coming years...but was he clever and careful enough to do it without making everything worse?

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared."  
Harrison glared at the headmaster.  
"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?"

As Harry and Dumbledore stood up, the far side of Dumbledore's robe twitched as if he'd made a small movement with a concealed wand.

_Ah_, Harrison thought. _There goes the compulsion from the note. "Use it well." Hmph._

...

The snow didn't melt until well into the start of term. Harrison kept close tabs on Harry and his friends as they studied, went to class, practiced Quiddich, or attended Quirrell's extra lessons on defense and magical theory. The spectre remained deeply unsettled by these tutoring sessions.

He laughed his invisible face off when, near the end of January, the Weasley twins bewitched several snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around, bouncing off the back of his turban.


	8. The Devil You Know

The Gryffindor team found out that Snape intended to referee their upcoming match against Hufflepuff. Everyone thought Snape, who _never_ refereed Quiddich, was doing it to stop Gryffindor from overtaking Slytherin in the race for the house cup, but Harry, Ron and Hermione were sure the professor meant for Harry to have another potentially fatal "accident."

Harry started to see Snape wherever he went. Hermione said it was just nerves, that he was imagining it, yet Harry couldn't escape the feeling that Snape was following him. The professor was absolutely horrible to Harry during Potions lessons, which had become a sort of weekly torture.

Could Snape possibly know they'd found out about the Philosopher's Stone? Harry didn't see how he could - yet he sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape could read minds.

...

"Come on, Potter! Again!"

"_Stupify!_ Damn it!"

The hairy, magically enlarged spider Harry had been trying to Stun jumped sideways, avoiding the bolt of red light. Harry dropped his wand arm, clenching his teeth. Professor Quirrell silently immobilized the spider, crossed his arms, and leant back against the teachers' desk.

"You aren't concentrating. What's wrong, Potter?"

Harry went to wipe his nose on his robes and stopped when Quirrell gave the offending sleeve a pointed look.

"it's nothing, professor." Quirrell waited quietly. When Harry didn't speak, he raised his eyebrows. Harry shrugged and looked at the floor, rolling his wand in his hands. When he finally spoke the words came out in a rush.

"I think Snape's trying to kill me, sir, he jinxed my broom in the first Quiddich match, and now he's gonna referee the next one, and - " Harry broke off and stared as Quirrell roared with startled laughter.

"_Professor _Snape isn't trying to kill you, Potter!" Harry scowled. Of course no adult would believe him. He shouldn't have let himself hope this man would be any different. Professor Quirrell seemed to know what he was thinking, because he stopped laughing and examined the boy, his face suddenly serious.

"But that doesn't mean he isn't...out to get you." Harry looked up, startled. "What do you know of Professor Snape, Potter?"

"He favors Slytherin a _lot_, and he's their head of house. He's also the youngest Potions Master in ages, which means he's smart, but he's pants at teaching because he's forever scaring people. Neville melts a cauldron a month, sure, but he wouldn't be half as bad if Snape let him alone. Er...and Percy Weasley said he's after your job, sir, because he knows so much about the..."Dark" Arts."

Quirrell smoothed a hand over his mouth to hide a smile.

"Mmm. Mr Longbottom does have an, ah...talent for destruction. And how does Professor Snape treat you in class?"

Harry fidgeted. Talking about Neville was easier. Quirrell waved a hand at him, encouraging him to speak up.

"He asks me loads of questions, and says stuff like how _famous Harry Potter _should know the answers, but, if I get one right, he says I'm as arrogant as my father. He's _always_ comparing me to my dad."

"Potter - "

"How's that fair, sir? I didn't even _know _my dad! He's - "

"Potter!" Harry clapped his mouth shut, looking sheepish. "Your father and Professor Snape were in the same year at Hogwarts. Did you know that?"

Harry shook his head.

"Their relationship was...antagonistic. At best. From what I've heard, they did everything in their power to make each other's lives miserable..." Quirrell's voice trailed off expectantly.

"...and I look remarkably like my father." Harry finished with a sigh. Quirrell inclined his head. "Everyone says so. But my dad's still _dead_, professor. He never raised me." Harry blinked a few times. Quirrell said nothing. "And they must have finished Hogwarts _ages_ ago, sir. Professor Snape's really holding a grudge for that long?"

"It is the most likely explanation, yes."

Harry thought about that for a moment.

"Can't I do anything about it?"

"You can try." Quirrell paused, then said. "Professor Snape demands respect, punctuality, and he values intelligence. Call him "sir" or "professor" at all times, and never let your face or voice show what you really think of him. Make a point of getting to Potions early so that you may set your things up without interrupting the class. Prepare by reading ahead, like your friend Ms Granger, and _pay attention _to his instructions. Have you done much cooking?"

"Oh, yes. Sir."

Quirrell frowned slightly at Harry's cynical tone, but chose not to comment on it. "Think of potions as complicated recipes. It will help. And, above all, _do not_ get caught sneaking around the castle at night. Your father did it constantly. I've heard it led to some nasty confrontations between him, and his friends, and Professor Snape."

"Thank you, sir, but...what about Quiddich?"

Quirrell smiled.

"Professor Snape certainly loathed your father's talent for the game, but...do not worry about Quiddich. I believe Professor Dumbledore means to attend your next match. You'll be quite safe, Potter."

"Thank you, sir!" Harry smiled brightly.

...

For all that Harrison loved watching Harry play Quiddich, it always made him long for his old Firebolt, the rush of wind, and the ecstatic freedom of flight.

Harry looked almost carefree as the Gryffindor team walked out onto the pitch. Harrison frowned, remembering Harry's most recent lesson with Quirrellmort. The spectre still did not know what to make of their budding...friendship? Mentorship? What did the man hope to gain by telling Harry that Snape hated James Potter, or by giving Harry legitimately good advice for surviving Potions? What was he playing at?

On the Quiddich pitch, Snape looked like he'd eaten something foul.

_So would I_, Harrison thought grimly, _if I were forced to protect the living reminder of my own worst failures_.

He stood in the stands behind Ron and Hermione who, it turned out, planned to use the Leg Locker curse on Snape if necessary. Harrison snorted at the thought of Snape hurtling through the air, stiff as a board and mad as a hornet, with his broom stuck between his frozen legs.

A whistle blew and the players kicked off. Snape wasted no time favoring Hufflepuff.

Harrison missed Harry's record-setting catch entirely because he got sidetracked by a fight that broke out between Ron, Malfoy, Neville, Crabbe and Goyle. Did that happen last time? He would have to check his memories and find out. Neville did brilliantly, standing up to Malfoy and taking Crabbe and Goyle on all by himself.

...

The weather improved and the Easter holidays came and went, with Hermione badgering her boys into preparing for their final exams. Ron took a little more convincing than Harry, but they both joined her in the library more often than not. Hermione started carrying a bag of snacks to keep Ron quiet.

Harry continued his weekly lessons with Quirrellmort. They covered Stunning spells, two different anti-jinx spells, and the Revealing Charm. Most lessons ended with Quirrell answering Harry's questions. He taught the boy the rules of formal dueling, described cursed objects he'd encountered during his travels, and told him the prevailing theories on how magic actually worked.

According to Quirrell, magic was one of the fundamental forces that held the universe together. He introduced Harry to the idea that magic was magic, with no real difference between "Light" and "Dark" despite what his job title implied. Rather, these labels were the somewhat arbitrary result of hundreds of years of tradition and an evolving magical legal system. Opinions on whether a spell was Light or Dark even varied from country to country.

Quirrell also explained to Harry that Light spells could be used with the intent to harm just as easily as Dark spells. Harry thought this made sense, and told Quirrell how he'd stuck Malfoy's lips together in the library. Quirrell, in turn, told him about a particularly nasty curse which expelled the target's entrails. That curse, a favorite of some Dark wizards, had originally been invented to make butchering livestock cleaner and less time consuming.

Harrison silently observed every one of these lessons. He remained angry and apprehensive toward the situation but, over time, he became just as interested as Harry in the discussions of magical theory. He was reluctantly impressed with Quirrellmort's logic, though he didn't agree with it, and upset to find himself impressed.

What disturbed him most, however, was that the professor seemed almost fond of Harry, while Harry himself always seemed reluctant to leave the Defense classroom when their sessions ended.

...

Harry walked through the entrance Hall one sunny afternoon, deep in thought. He had just finished Revealing Charms with Professor Quirrell.

He had also worked up the courage to ask about Voldemort.

Professor Quirrell hadn't said anything for a long time. He looked Harry straight in the eye, and Harry couldn't look away. When Quirrell finally spoke, his voice was quiet and completely serious.

The professor told him that, a long time ago, jealous and fearful Muggles hunted down and killed many hundreds of magical people and almost caused several kinds of magical creature to go extinct. Magical beings have power that Muggles can only dream of – yet there have always been far, far more Muggles than magicals.

The main purpose of the Ministry of Magic, he said, was not to govern witches and wizards, but to protect them. Their job was to keep the Muggles ignorant. Lord Voldemot was an immensely powerful wizard who mastered magics that few had even heard of, let alone tried to control. For this reason, many called him the Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord saw that over time the Ministry of Magic had become complacent, and sloppy, and followed policies that put the entire wizarding world in danger. They, for example, allowed magical children to grow up with Muggles who were cruel, or neglectful, and did nothing to cover up the results of their accidental magic. Conversely, the Ministry overreached itself by presuming to dictate what magics could or could not be legally performed.

Lord Voldemort declared that this must change. He waged war against the Ministry. It was a terrible war, Quirrell said, but many thought it a necessary one.

Harry listened, and when Quirrell dismissed him he walked out into the grounds and sat by the lake in the sun.

That Voldemort didn't sound like the wizard Hagrid described, the one who was "worse than worse," the wizard who went "as bad as you could go." The Voldemort whom Professor Quirrell described made…some kind of sense. Ruthless and violent, sure…but Harry knew how bad it was to be at the mercy of Muggles who were afraid of magic.

And yet Voldemort_ killed his parents_. He may not have known them, but they were still the Mum and Dad he'd seen in the mirror. He had spent years wishing for someone, anyone, to rescue him from the Dursleys, and Voldemort was the reason no one came.

Until Hagrid. Harry loved Hagrid for giving him his letter, and his first birthday present, but…but…

Harry shook his head. It didn't really matter anymore, because Voldemort was gone.

Probably.

...

Harrison paced up and down the lake shore beside Harry.

The professor must have lied. Voldemort was _insane_. He, Harrison, had witnessed that insanity with his own eyes. The Voldemort he knew tortured and killed anyone who opposed him. The man's only goal was to subjugate everyone, wizard or Muggle, who didn't fit his standards for blood purity.

If the professor lied, then this Voldemort was just as evil as the nose-less bastard Harrison remembered, and would behave in roughly the same way.

If the professor had not lied, then there was a chance this Voldemort was…saner, or at least fought for more sensible reasons, and Harrison would not be able to anticipate his movements.

Which was worse: an evil, predictable Voldemort or a rational, unpredictable one?


	9. The Dragon

The Gryffindor first years climbed the stairs from the dungeons on their way to the Great Hall. They had just finished Potions with the Slytherins, and Harry was feeling rather pleased with himself.

He, Ron and Hermione had been reading ahead for the class, arriving early to set up their cauldrons and ingredients, and working as quietly and carefully as possible. Ron made a real effort not to doodle or gossip. Hermione restrained her enthusiasm when Snape quizzed them on magical herbs and fungi. Harry concentrated on the brewing instructions, defended his cauldron from Malfoy's occasional attempts at sabotage, and consciously stopped himself from reacting to the professor's barbed comments.

Their efforts finally began to show positive results that morning: Snape let Hermione answer a question, and he ignored Harry and Ron entirely. It was definitely an improvement, and Harry was very glad to see Professor Quirrell's advice paying off. The attempt to make Snape less antagonistic was not their only project, however.

They'd caught Hagrid looking up books on dragon keeping in the library late last week. When they confronted him and discovered the dragon egg in his fireplace, the gamekeeper said he'd won the egg from a stranger in Hogsmead who was impressed that Hagrid knew how to handle a three-headed dog. When they found out that Hagrid didn't even know what the man looked like, Ron asked, "But what if he was after the Stone?"

Hagrid wasn't happy to hear that they knew who Flamel was and what Fluffy was guarding, but after some flattery from Hermione he told them that Professors Sprout, Flitwick, McGonagall, Quirrell, Snape, and Dumbledore had all contributed enchantments to protect the Philosopher's Stone. Hagrid thought that made the third floor corridor safer than Gringotts.

Harry and Ron later agreed that man in the pub must be after the Stone. Hermione wasn't convinced. She said the stranger might know how to get past Fluffy, but they couldn't possibly work out the teachers' enchantments.

One day at lunch, the boys were trying to get Hermione to tell them what she'd do if she had the Philosopher's Stone when Hedwig arrived. Harry gave her a bit of ham and she began preening herself as he opened the note, which was from Hagrid. He had only written two words: _It's hatching._

Ron was all for skipping Herbology and going straight down to the hut. Hermione wouldn't hear of it.

"Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going to see a dragon hatchling?"

"We've got lessons, we'll get into trouble, and Hagrid's going to be in even _more_ trouble when someone finds out what he's doing – "

"Shut up!" Harry whispered."

Malfoy was passing by the Gryffindor table and stopped dead to listen. How much had he heard? Enough, if the look on Malfoy's face was any indication.

...

Later that day Harry, Ron, Hermione and Hagrid sat around the wooden table in Hagrid's hut. Harrison stood behind Ron's chair. They all stared at the large black egg on the table. It wobbled back and forth. Thin fractures riddled its surface; a funny clicking noise was coming from inside.

Everyone but Hagrid jumped as the egg _cracked_, loudly, and fell open. The baby dragon flopped onto the tablecloth, all wings and tail. Harrison thought it still looked like a crumpled, black umbrella. The dragon had a skinny body, a long snout, wide nostrils, stubby horns and bulging, bright orange eyes.

It sneezed. A couple of sparks flew out of its snout toward Hermione, who twitched backward, looking anxious.

"Isn't he _beautiful_?" Hagrid murmered. He reached out to stroke the dragon's head. It snapped at his fingers, showing pointed fangs.

"Hagrid," said Hermione, "how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow, exactly?"

Hagrid was about to answer when the color suddenly drained from his face – he leapt to his feet and ran through Harrison to the window.

"What's the matter?"

"Someone was lookin' through the gap in the curtains – it's a kid – he's runnin' back up ter the school." Harry bolted to the door and looked out. Even at a distance there was no mistaking the boy's white blond hair.

Malfoy had seen the dragon.

...

They visited Hagrid as often as possible over the next week, trying to convince him to set the dragon free. It had already tripled in size and begun to vent thick smoke from its nostrils. The floor of Hagrid's hut was strewn with empty brandy bottles and chicken feathers from its breakfast.

"I've decided to call him Norbert," said Hagrid, looking at the dragon with misty eyes. "He really knows me now, watch. Norbert! Norbert! Where's Mummy?"

"He's lost his marbles," Ron muttered in Harry's ear.

"Hagrid," said Harry loudly, "give it a fortnight and Norbert's going to be as long as your house. Malfoy could go to Dumbledore at any moment."

Hagrid bit his lip.

"I – I know I can't keep him forever, but I can't jus' dump him, I can't."

Harry suddenly _knew_ what to do with the dragon. He turned to Ron.

"Charlie," he said.

"You're losing it, too," said Ron. "I'm Ron, remember?"

"No – Charlie – your brother, Charlie. In Romania. Studying dragons. We could send Norbert to him. Charlie can take care of him and then put him back in the wild!"

Brilliant!" said Ron. "How about it, Hagrid?" And in the end, Hgarid agreed that they could send an owl to Charlie to ask him.

...

On Wednesday, Charlie's owl returned with the plan to transport Norbert. On Saturday, at a quarter past ten, Harrison stood in the entrance hall with Harry as they waited for Peeves to stop playing tennis against the wall. Contrary to Harrison's memories, his younger self was alone under the invisibility cloak.

The past week had gone as expected, for the most part. Charlie had instructed them to meet his friends at midnight, with the dragon, at the top of the Astronomy tower. Ron was in the hospital wing having a dragon bite treated by Madam Pomfrey. Draco Malfoy went to taunt him on the pretext of borrowing a book, and found Charlie's letter hidden inside.

Harrison realized that the Norbert adventure wasn't going according to plan when Hermione turned up in the hospital wing as well, limping heavily, with tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Norbert's tail had smashed into her ankle, leaving deep bruises and making it impossible for her to help Harry carry the dragon all the way up the tower.

Harry, looking grim, decided it was too late to change the plan. He told Ron and Hermione he'd get it done, somehow. They protested, of course, but Harry insisted that he'd always been able to get himself out of difficult situations.

Harrison was surprised at Harry's confidence. What was the boy planning?

...

Harry pulled the invisibility cloak tighter around his shoulders as he walked across the grounds toward Hagrid's hut. He was thinking about the Dursleys.

It was true, he _had_ always been able to get himself out of difficult situations. The first time his uncle came after him with raised fists and sherry on his breath, Harry _knew_ how to dodge under the first swing, run outside, and hide in the hydrangeas until the man stopped shouting and had gone upstairs to sleep it off. He was five.

There were exceptions to the rule, of course. The first (and last) time Dudley asked his mother how planes fly, Harry _knew,_ so he told them about aerodynamically shaped wings and differences in air pressure. He was four. After a moment of stunned silence, his aunt reacted by shutting him in the cupboard under the stairs for two days with no breakfast. He hadn't been able to get out of that one.

Harry learned from an early age that he was different, a freak. He had always known things he shouldn't, and living with his aunt and uncle taught him never to speak of such things because they _weren't normal_.

...

The Dursleys did not teach Harry Potter to speak, or to read, or to dress himself, or brush his teeth or use the loo or any of a hundred everyday skills which parents teach their children. They didn't want to do these things for him, and about six months after he was left on their doorstop Petunia realized they didn't have to. Her sister's unnatural toddler could and did brush his teeth, a little clumsily, without help. When she gave him Dudley's old clothes, he knew how to put them on. She even caught the boy potty training himself and teaching himself how to walk.

It deeply unsettled Vernon and Petunia. They interacted with Harry as little as possible, yet that two year old rapidly developed proper English syntax and pronunciation while _their _two year old struggled to speak, even though they showered Dudley with attention and educational toys.

...

Before Hogwarts, Harry's flashes of intuition had always involved knowing _how_ things worked, like walking or writing properly. Or how to avoid drunken uncles. They had not involved _what_ to do. They were never original ideas, nor did they ever come with sudden, strong emotions.

That was why Harry had been unnerved once he got a chance to think about what happened on Hallowe'en. As he and Ron had followed Percy up the stairs outside the Great Hall, he'd felt an inexplicable rush of urgency as something inside told him _The Slytherins are in the dungeons. In danger. Help them. _Nothing told him how he could help, just that he should, and quickly. That was new, and he hadn't been sure if he liked the change, but the flash of idea had nevertheless brought him five points to Gryffindor and a valuable new friend.

Since then he'd realized that his intuition was very like the surety of his spellcasting; he _knew _the correct swish-and-flick of a Levitating Charm at age eleven just as he _knew_ the dynamics of flight at age four.

Harry hoped, as he knocked on Hagrid's door, that it would help him now. He was right.

...

Harrison was confused. Harry had just dragged Norbert's crate about halfway to the castle steps, then pushed back the hood of his cloak and sat down in the grass. The boy's head was floating in mid-air, his face flushed with exertion, sweat making his fringe stick to his forehead. Harry frowned at the heavy crate while he caught his breath.

Suddenly, the boy's face cleared. He smiled and stood up, moving around to the far side of the wooden box.

_"Wingardium leviosa_," muttered Harry. The crate lifted scant inches off the ground. He took a tentative step forward, keeping his wand trained on his target, and Norbert moved with him. Harry grinned and kept going. The dragon made several restless noises before settling down.

_Brilliant!_ Harrison thought. This boy was definitely cleverer than he had been. _And_, he reluctantly admitted, _it looks like Quirrellmort's lessons are paying off. Again._

It was slow going. Harry lost his concentration and dropped Norbert's crate only once, at the foot of the stairs up to the castle. The noise hadn't been that loud but he froze anyway, listening, until he was sure nobody was coming to investigate. After that he put the box down gently several times in deserted corridors to give himself a rest. He couldn't believe his luck when he reached the Astronomy tower without being seen. He was sweating again after his extended use of magic, so he took off the cloak and let it fall into the shadows at the base of the parapet. Norbert snorted smoke and a few sparks at Harry's feet, and he jumped back.

He didn't realize that he'd left the door to the stairs open.

...

Harrison tried to warn his younger self, but by the time he thought to make some part of himself visible the damage was already done.

"You're in for it now, Potter! You – "

"_Expelliarmus!_" BANG.

"_Argh _– "

CRUNCH.

Malfoy slammed backward into the stone side of the tower and slumped to the cold floor, unconscious. Harry stood with his wand arm out, breathing fast, his pulse racing as he stared at Malfoy. Harrison stared at both of them. It seemed that nobody, least of all Harry, had expected his reaction to be that fast or that forceful. For a moment the only sound was Harry's frightened breathing and the shuffling movements of an agitated baby dragon.

Then, the noise of rapid footfalls growing louder and louder as someone climbed quickly up the tower stairs. There was an excited yowl.

"Not Peeves this time, my sweet. Bloody poltergeist can't Disarm – "

Flich's voice stung Harry into action. He lept forward, pushed the door shut, and hesitated for a frantic second before screwing his eyes shut and casting a Sticking charm on the door. When he opened his eyes, the edges had spread out in patches to glue itself unevenly to the doorframe.

Harry ran to lean out over the edge of the tower, desperately searching the cloudy sky. Flich and Mrs Norris reached the top of the stairs, Filch banging on the door and shouting threats when it wouldn't open. The racket upset Norbert and the dragon growled, loudly, and snorted more smoke. Filch stopped banging on the door.

"Ooooh, now that's a dangerous sounding beastie, isn't it, my sweet? Just wait till Professor Snape hears about this…" Filch's excited voice faded as he and his cat climbed back down the tower.


	10. Draco

When Harry finally spotted four broomsticks silhouetted against a cloud, he turned around, grabbed his invisibility cloak off the floor, and tossed it over Malfoy. He could only deal with one dragon at a time.

_Please_, Harry thought desperately, _don't wake up yet_.

Charlie's friends were a cheery lot who clearly thought Harry's nervousness was due to him being out of bed after curfew. They showed Harry the harness they'd rigged up, so they could suspend Norbert between them. They all helped buckle Norbert safely into it and then shook hands with Harry, who thanked them very much. Harry was on tenterhooks the entire time, thinking that Filch could return with Snape at any moment.

At last, Norbert was going…going…_gone_.

"Wha…?"

Malfoy was stirring. Harry groped around the floor until he found Malfoy's knee, whipped the cloak off the boy, and pulled it around himself. Malfoy blinked several times, gazing blearily at the spot where Harry had disappeared.

Filch and Snape could be heard climbing the stairs. Harry moved, as quietly as he could, to the far edge of the tower and pressed himself against the parapet. He tried to breath slowly and silently. Malfoy rolled onto his side and retched once or twice, but did not vomit.

_"Reglutio!_" With Snape's counter charm the edges of the door unstuck themselves from the door frame. The Potions Master swept out of the stairwell and went immediately to Malfoy, who was now on his hands and knees.

"Mr Malfoy! What happened, boy?" Malfoy groaned.

"I was attacked, sir…Potter attacked me."

"Ah," said Snape, sounding both bitter and oddly satisfied. "Of course it was Potter."

"There was a dragon, too. He had it in a box."

"A…dragon."

"Sounds about right from what I heard, professor."

"Hmm. Take Mr Malfoy to the hospital wing, Mr Filch."

"Yes, professor, but –"

"I will find Mr Potter."

"Right. Come on then, boy." Filch grabbed Malfoy by the arm and dragged him to his feet. Harry followed them out the door and down the stairs, keen not to be left alone with Snape. He did not take the cloak off until he was safely on the landing outside the first year boys' dormitory in Gryffindor tower.

...

The next morning, Harry went to visit Ron and Hermione in the hospital wing. Their cuts and bruises were healing nicely. They started to ask him about the night before, but Harry cut them off and glanced pointedly over his shoulder.

Malfoy was asleep in a bed on the opposite side of the room. Or, at least, he seemed to be asleep. Harry wasn't taking chances. He told his friends he'd come visit them again later, and Hermione made him promise to bring her books.

He had barely sat down to breakfast when Percy hurried over.

"Come with me, Potter. Professor McGonagall says you're to see her in her office. Right now."

Harry swallowed his bite of sausage and nodded, cold dread welling up inside him. He followed Percy out of the Great Hall.

...

Percy ushered him into Professor McGonagall's study on the first floor and closed the door behind him. The head of Gryffindor house sat at her desk, peering at Harry over her spectacles. Snape stood nearby, his arms crossed. Neville Longbottom was there, too. The look he gave Harry was terrified and desperately apologetic.

Harry swallowed. He was pretty sure he knew what this was all about, but Neville's presence threw him off.

"Draco Malfoy," said Professor McGonagall, "is in the hospital wing with a severe concussion. He was found on the floor of the Astronomy tower last night and claims you attacked him, Mr Potter."

_"What_? Professor McGonagall, I –"

"I would never have believed it of you, Mr Potter, but Mr Filch heard a student, a _male_ student, cast a Disarming Charm moments before the tower door was Stuck shut."

Harry kept his face blank. Faking surprise or innocence never worked with the Dursleys, and these people were a lot smarter than his aunt and uncle.

"Did Filch see who it was, professor?"

"No." said Professor Snape, his eyes narrowed. "He did not see the dragon, either, but he heard noises that support Mr Malfoy's story."

"Malfoy had a dragon?"

"Do…not…interrupt…me, Mr Potter," Snape said slowly, his voice dangerous. Harry could have kicked himself.

_Be respectful. Don't show what you're thinking. Don't get caught._

"I'm sorry, professor." Harry said, looking down. Professor McGonagall spoke.

"I thought at first you fed Mr Malfoy some cock and bull story about a dragon, trying to get him out of bed and into trouble, but I cannot dismiss the report from Mr Flich. What do you have to say for yourself, Mr Potter?"

"It's true Malfoy and I aren't…friends, professor, but I didn't do anything. And why's Neville here?"

"Harry, I'm sorry, I didn't know what – " Neville started, but Snape cut him off.

"After some…convincing, Mr Longbottom admitted you weren't in your dormitory last night, Potter."

Harry said nothing.

"As it stands, there is no actual proof you were the one to assault Mr Malfoy, Potter – "

"I think – "

"There's also nothing that proves he _wasn't _involved, Severus." Professor McGonagall said briskly. "Mr Potter, you and Mr Malfoy will both receive detentions. _Nothing_ gives you the right to walk around school at night, especially these days, it's very dangerous."

Snape's eyes glittered and his lips curled in a nasty smile. Neville shrank away from him.

"Allow them to serve their detentions with me, Minerva, and I will be satisfied."

"Very well. Potter, Longbottom, return to Gryffindor tower, or to the Great Hall if you have not yet eaten. Expect the details of your detention by Monday, Mr Potter."

They left. Harry went upstairs with Neville as their appetites had thoroughly disappeared. They didn't say anything until they reached the common room. It was deserted except for Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who were gossiping by the fire.

"Look, I'm really sorry Harry. Snape pounced on me on the way to breakfast, and I told him no before I knew what I was saying! I didn't give you away on purpose, promise."

Harry scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed.

"Don't worry about it, Neville. It's not your fault. Snape's got intimidation down to a science."

"A what?"

Harry made a face. "It's a…never mind."

"So," whispered Neville, glancing around, "what _did _happen?"

"It was an accident," said Harry, his voice equally quiet. "I'll…I'll tell you later. When Ron and Hermione get back."

"Okay." Neville still looked worried. Harry gave him a small smile, patted him on the shoulder, and went to ask Parvati and Lavender if they could fetch Hermione's book bag from the girl's dormitory.

...

Harrison did not follow the boys back to Gryffindor tower. Instead, he marched out of the castle and across the grounds towards Hagrid's cabin.

Gryffindor hadn't lost any points, so the school probably wouldn't shun Harry and his friends for allowing Slytherin to take the house cup yet again. Hermione hadn't been involved at all this time, and Neville only played a part after the fact. Harry and Malfoy were still getting detentions, but with Snape rather than Hagrid.

Harrison knew his detention in the Forbidden Forest had meant seeing Quirrell drink unicorn's blood to keep Voldemort alive, though he hadn't known it was Quirrell at the time. He had thought Voldemort was hiding in the Forest waiting for Snape to get him the Philosopher's Stone.

Until now Harrison assumed the unicorns were still being attacked, but what if he was wrong? McGonagall hadn't said anything about Hagrid needing help. Besides, if Malfoy knew the dragon belonged to the gamekeeper, why hadn't anyone asked Hagrid what happened? It seemed unlikely that Malfoy's injury would distract him so thoroughly that he'd forget that detail, but the boy was remarkably self-centered.

Harrison shadowed Hagrid for several days, yet found nothing whatsoever to show that Quirrellmort had been killing unicorns. So he began following Quirrellmort himself.

...

Because he was following Hagrid and Quirrell, Harrison did not attend the detention with Snape. He did not see the truly appalled look on Draco Malfoy's face when he was told he'd be scrubbing cauldrons, without magic, for eight hours.

"But this is servant stuff, it's not for students to do. I thought we'd be writing lines or something, if my father knew I was doing this, he'd – "

" – tell you that's how it is at…this…school." Snape finished smoothly. "Writing _lines_. What good would that do? You will do something useful, both of you, or get out. If you think Lucius Malfoy would rather you were expelled, then return to your dormitory and pack."

Malfoy and Harry didn't move. Malfoy looked at Snape furiously but then dropped his gaze. The professor directed them toward a pile of scoring pads, soap, and two self-refilling buckets of water. He then declared that he expected them to scrub _quietly, _as he would be in the next room grading papers. He left them to it.

Harry got started. His first cauldron was covered in bright pink slime. His second and third cauldrons had an inch of something green and revoltingly _hairy_ at the bottom. He had just caught the last blob of an orange goo which had been actively evading his attempts to clean it when he realized that Malfoy was only on his second cauldron. The blond behaved as though he'd never scrubbed a pot in his life.

_Which_, Harry thought as he watched Malfoy over the edge of his fifth cauldron, _is probably the case. I bet his family really does have servants for this kind of thing._ He decided to help Malfoy, a little, because he truly had not meant to put him in the hospital wing.

He dropped his eyes and fidgeted, resettling himself so that Malfoy could easily see how he held the scoring pad. He started scrubbing in slightly exaggerated movements. After a moment the sound of Malfoy's cleaning paused, then resumed. Harry waited. Both boys finished one cauldron, then another. He glanced over when Malfoy started on a big bronze one with yellow and orange splotches. The blond's movements were now much more efficient.

Malfoy caught him looking.

"How're you so good at servant work, Potter? Do the Muggles you live with make you do all their dishes?" he hissed.

"Does your precious father know you risked expulsion to chase _dragons_, Draco?"

"There _was_ a bloody dragon and I _know_ it was you, you lying sack of – " Malfoy's voice rose angrily.

"Language, Malfoy, and _be quiet_." Harry whispered fiercely. "It'll be the worse for us if Snape has to come out here to shut us up himself."

Malfoy sneered, but he shut up. They scrubbed in silence for a little over an hour.

"Changing the subject and getting me defensive with a play on my name. That was practically Slytherin of you, Potter."

Harry looked up warily. Malfoy had stopped scrubbing and was looking at him through narrowed eyes.

"Thank you?"

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, surprised. "You take being Slytherin as a compliment?"

"It is, from you anyway. " Harry resumed work on his latest cauldron. Malfoy snorted, evidently displeased that Harry wasn't going to fight him. He was wrong.

"I know I'll be in Slytherin," whispered Harry, mimicking Draco's drawl from their first meeting in Madam Malkin's, "all our family have been – " Malfoy went red.

"You – " He hissed, but Harry cut him off.

The only reason _I'm_ not in Slytherin," he said, his voice cold and quiet, "is 'cause I begged the Sorting Hat to put me somewhere else; anywhere but the house with _Draco Malfoy_."

He went back to scrubbing cauldrons. Malfoy was staring at him, speechless. Neither of them noticed that, in the other room, Snape's quill had stopped scratching.

"Merlin. _Why?_"

"Scrub and talk, Malfoy, or we'll be here all night." Malfoy reluctantly pulled over another cauldron. After a moment, Harry said,

"You're a lot like my cousin Dudley."

"A _Muggle?_" Malfoy sneered quietly. He kept scrubbing.

"Yes, Malfoy, you're as bad as a fucking Muggle."

"Language, Potter." Malfoy smirked. Harry glared at him.

"He made my life hell before Hogwarts, and you've tried to do the same at Hogwarts." Harry glanced at Malfoy. "He's a lot fatter than you, though, and not as sneaky."

Malfoy looked rather pleased at that. Harry rolled his eyes.

...

The first time Quirrell entered the third floor corridor with a shrunken harp in his robe pocket, Harrison panicked.

_Damn it. Don't do this yet. It's too early._ He was sorely tempted to make his hands solid and distract them by…by punching Voldemort in his parasitic face, or something, but he was held back by old fear and years of Occlumancy training. He forced the panic down.

He made himself watch as Quirrell subdued Fluffy, repelled the Devil's Snare with conjured sunlight, caught the flying key, and played his way across McGonagall's chess set. The man easily knocked out his troll and, instead of taking Snape's potion, drank from a large vial of his own which allowed him to walk through the fire unharmed.

Harrison cursed himself for a fool. He'd known the obstacles were a set up for Harry and his friends, but he thought Dumbledore's presence would stop Voldemort from going after the Stone when, clearly, the mirror was the only thing standing in his way.

Quirrell trailed his wand along its frame and the reversed lettering. He went to examine the back, then came around from behind the mirror to stare hungrily into it.

"I still see the Stone…I'm presenting it to you, master…but _where is it?_"

The professor tapped his wand against the fingers of his other hand, irritated. He then spent several minutes casting different spells on the mirror, testing it, before he left. He retraced his steps through each room and conjured a ladder to get up through the trapdoor. Harrison was able to scramble up the ladder too, passing through Quirrell's body as he went, thinking that incorporeality was awfully useful at moments like these. Otherwise, he'd be stranded in the Devil's Snare for the remainder of the term.

Quirrell shrunk the harp, moved to the door, summoned the instrument, then quickly stepped outside and shut the door behind him before Fluffy had time to wake up. Harrison started following the professor down the Charms corridor, but stopped. He turned toward the stairs instead.

If he were going to help Harry defeat this man, he would need to be able to explain his knowledge of horcruxes. For that, he needed _Secrets of the Darkest Art_, and it had occurred to him that he should take advantage of his spectral state by exploring Dumbledore's study.


End file.
